The first thing Natt noticed about Kiro’s apartment wasn’t the minimalism or the precise orderliness. It was the smell—metallic, faintly antiseptic, and utterly foreign.

“Do you always keep a weapon in the fridge?” Natt asked, eyes wide as he pointed at the long, slender gun tucked neatly between the milk and a carton of eggs.

Kiro, who was perched on the counter slicing vegetables with the accuracy of a surgeon, didn’t even flinch. He merely sighed, the kind of sigh that carried decades of patience and annoyance.

“It’s a habit,” Kiro said flatly, setting down the knife. “It stays cold, preserves the metal. Prevents rust.”

Natt stared at him. “Habit…? You keep guns in the fridge like it’s… groceries?!”

Kiro didn’t respond. He picked up a frying pan and began cooking, the movement fluid, precise, almost hypnotic. Natt, meanwhile, had stepped back cautiously, taking note of every corner of the apartment. It was pristine, too clean to feel lived-in, and yet strangely warm—somewhere between functional austerity and subtle comfort.

This was the world he had just stepped into. And he hated it.

The first day was chaos.

Natt tripped over Kiro’s perfectly placed shoes. He accidentally knocked over a stack of carefully folded clothes, scattering them across the floor. He shrieked when a small knife rolled off the counter, clanging on the tile.

“Careful!” Kiro snapped, though his tone lacked real anger. He merely bent, picked up the knife, and returned it to its designated spot.

“I—I didn’t touch anything!” Natt protested, though the pile of clothes betrayed him.

“Then stay out of the kitchen,” Kiro replied, almost too casually.

For a man who spent most of his life dodging bullets and dismantling threats, Kiro’s patience with Natt’s clumsiness was remarkable. Or, Natt realized, terrifyingly absent. Either way, it left Natt feeling both flustered and oddly safe.

By the second day, they had begun to form a strange routine. Kiro cooked while Natt organized the shelves, cataloging the few books Kiro had brought with him. It wasn’t much—some classics, a few novels, and a stack of manuals that looked like they belonged in a training room rather than a living space—but the act of organizing gave Natt a sense of purpose.

“I still don’t understand why you need so many knives,” Natt muttered as he carefully stacked a set of throwing knives into their case.

“They’re tools,” Kiro said simply. “Like your books.”

Natt blinked. “I… suppose that’s true, but books don’t kill people.”

“They do if you throw them hard enough,” Kiro deadpanned, making Natt laugh despite the tension that still lingered in the apartment.

After a while, the conversation naturally drifted to the inevitable: Kiro’s past.

“You… you were a hitman, weren’t you?” Natt asked hesitantly one evening, as they prepared a simple dinner of fried rice and vegetables.

Kiro’s hand froze mid-motion. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “That’s none of your concern.”

Natt frowned. “I mean… I saw you in action. You can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”

“I can,” Kiro said bluntly, returning to chopping vegetables. “It’s over. That’s all you need to know.”

Natt sighed, realizing that pushing further would only result in silence. But he couldn’t help the small spark of curiosity that kept flickering in his chest.

The calm, mundane moments didn’t last long. Bangkok had a way of reminding Natt—and Kiro—that danger never stayed away for long.

It began with a subtle sense that they were being watched. People lingering in the streets outside, shadows that seemed to follow their movements. Then came the sounds: the faint hum of engines, the clatter of something dropped in the alley below.

One night, as they walked through the night market to gather supplies, chaos erupted. Masked attackers emerged from the crowd, guns drawn, and fired indiscriminately.

“Run!” Kiro shouted, grabbing Natt’s hand and pulling him into the narrow alleys between the market stalls.

Natt stumbled, nearly dropping his bag, but Kiro’s grip was iron-strong. They weaved through crowds of panicked shoppers, stalls overturned, fruits and vegetables rolling underfoot. The attackers were relentless, their aim precise, their intent unmistakable.

Somehow, amidst the chaos, Natt began to notice things he hadn’t before.

Kiro’s movements were almost impossible to follow. He ducked, rolled, and countered attacks with an efficiency that left Natt breathless. But even more striking was the way Kiro moved around him, shielding him from the worst of the crossfire, sometimes taking the brunt of a blow without a second thought.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kiro muttered once, after deflecting a knife that had sailed dangerously close to Natt’s shoulder.

“I’m not—” Natt began, then realized he couldn’t stop staring. Kiro’s hair was sticking to his forehead, sweat glinting on his skin, and yet he was utterly calm, utterly in control, and terrifyingly close.

The chaos reached a fever pitch when a makeshift explosion went off near a stack of market crates. Natt froze, heart hammering, unable to move fast enough. Kiro acted instantly, diving in front of him, taking the blast against his body.

“Stay down!” Kiro barked, shielding Natt as debris rained around them.

Natt pressed against him instinctively, feeling the heat of the explosion, the strength of the man shielding him. For the first time, he realized something terrifying and exhilarating: Kiro was risking his life for him. Not for some stranger, not for anyone else—but for Natt.

He swallowed hard, the realization settling like a stone in his chest. He cares about me. He’s putting himself in danger for me.

The attackers finally scattered, disappearing into the chaotic streets of Bangkok. Kiro got to his feet, brushing dust and ash off his coat, while Natt remained kneeling behind him, trembling, mind spinning.

Back at the apartment, the two of them were quiet for a long time. Natt unpacked the groceries with trembling hands, avoiding Kiro’s gaze, while Kiro tended to a few minor cuts and scratches on his hands.

“You really shouldn’t…” Natt began, but his voice faltered.

“I know,” Kiro said simply, his tone soft, almost uncharacteristic. “I don’t… I don’t have a choice.”

Natt’s fingers brushed against his own lips, the taste of adrenaline still sharp. “You’re… always protecting me,” he whispered.

Kiro looked at him then, a flicker of something—concern, maybe even something softer—crossing his features before he masked it again. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, tone low.

Natt’s heart pounded. “I—I know.”

That night, as the city of Bangkok hummed and flickered outside the apartment windows, Natt lay awake on the sofa. The adrenaline had faded, leaving him exhausted but restless. He glanced over at Kiro, who was sitting at the counter, cleaning a knife with meticulous care.

Natt’s gaze softened. For all Kiro’s stoicism, all his violence and skill, there was a part of him that was… human. And that part was here, with him, risking everything.

He leaned back on the sofa, feeling both terrified and strangely safe. The realization was dizzying. Natt’s ordinary life—the quiet mornings with books and coffee—was gone. He was living with a hitman. He was in danger. And yet, he couldn’t deny that he had never felt more alive.

As Kiro moved to prepare some water, Natt’s lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. The man next door—terrifying, precise, and impossible—had become his world. And he wasn’t sure if he was ready to let that go.

Cliffhanger: A faint hum at the window draws Natt’s attention. Outside, masked figures are once again moving silently between the shadows, weapons glinting. Kiro glances out, expression hardening.

“Stay behind me,” he mutters. Natt’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t move away. He’s beginning to understand… Kiro’s life, dangerous as it is, is now inseparable from his own.

And that thought, thrilling and terrifying, makes Natt’s pulse race faster than the bullets that had flown through the night market only hours ago.